“A… woman?” Cecilia stared up at the silhouette on the wall; the girl’s hair streamed like banners in a gale, her beauty bright with a confident smile.
“Urgh—” A Bloodhand Gang soldier lunged, seeing a gap. The giant beside Cecilia crashed in like a landslide, launching him into the wall and embedding him there, dead as stone.
“No wonder you wear a mask and dress so prim. Underneath, you’re a delicate little thing,” Haywood said, a mild smile tugging his honest face. Cecilia lowered her gaze, frost glazing her features. “So you mean I’m no longer delicate, soft as dew?”
Haywood’s smile froze. He could almost see a blood-red DANGER flicker over his head. He knew the question was death either way. He barked a laugh, then charged toward the battlefield’s heart like a bull through brush.
“Hmph.” Cecilia’s cold snort cut like winter air. Her golden-pink fists tightened. She drove a full-force punch into the earth; cracks spiderwebbed and a deep sinkhole yawned. Hundreds of Iron Cavalry were caught flat—warhorses stumbled, men and mounts tumbled like a broken wave, the formation collapsing.
“No! You damned rabble!” The Iron Cavalry captain screamed hoarsely, forced to watch his proud Iron Cavalry Legion ravaged and devoured like a field in locust season.
Gill brought his blade down, a cultish grin warping his face, his feral scowl sharp with loathing. “What’s wrong? Enjoying the taste of being cut down by ants?”
“Ah—oo—oo—!” The captain erupted. A black wind tore off him, and Gill was blasted back, shock widening his eyes as the gale tossed him over ten meters.
“A cornered beast, then?” Gill’s smile thinned into steel; vigilance sharpened his stance. The captain seized his spear and pounced like a leopard, fast and hungry.
Gill’s violet-flame greatsword swept out to meet him. THOOM— They crashed, one driving, one bracing, the impact shattering ground in a ten-meter ring and whipping sand and stone into a storm.
“Uwah—!” The captain’s right hand surged power; the spearhead hummed like a hornet. Gill finally gave way—skewered and sent flying dozens of meters, he dropped into the main melee, crashing through Dusk Legion ranks before he scraped to a stop.
“Hey! You okay?” Medith heard the shockwave. She stabbed an enemy clean through, booted the body aside, and flickered to Gill’s side like a shadow on wind.
Gill clutched his chest and spat a mouthful of blood. Beside him, the violet-flame greatsword drifted into purple dust and vanished, the wound’s weight heavy as ash.
Guilt bit Medith. She’d broken Gill’s hand; without that, he wouldn’t be this tattered.
These past days, they’d moved in tacit step, never touching the old death duel. As Medith had said, they’d lost enough to fill a night sky.
Back then, they both knew—deep down—it couldn’t have been the other. But hatred fogged their eyes, and the only road left was a blade’s edge to the end.
Medith had chosen wrong too many times. Her first failure cost thousands of Wind Sprite lives, like leaves stripped by a storm.
Her second, she lost Melia—a star torn from her horizon.
Her third, even the god was gone; to mend that “little mistake,” it erased itself from her sense entirely, like ink washed from a page, like it had never been.
This time, she would not fail. Her resolve set like iron cooled in snow.
“Heh… Is it me getting stiff, or the Southern Kingdom getting strong? I can’t even beat an Iron Cavalry captain…” Gill’s voice went dry, like rust on a blade.
Medith’s face held guilt, her tone heavy. “Medics, get him off the field and treat him. The rest, with me—tear the main line open.”
“Yes!” Voices answered like arrows loosed. Medics hurried in with two small wooden kits, reaching to lift Gill. Gill waved them off, one hand on his chest. “I can still fight…”
“Medith… you get it. Even if I die here, I’ll take Andrew’s head myself.” He spat blood again, his whole body drained, color leaking like twilight.
Medith watched his crimson windcoat flutter around him. The rooftop hero from days past was gone; the loss of a hand carved wounds deeper than sight.
She sighed, and yielded. “Bandage him. A short rest, then back in. But you guard him tight—if he dies, bring me your own heads.”
Gill flashed a grateful smile. Night fell across his vision, and he blacked out.
